Million Dead

A lone voice crying in the wilderness
make the straight way for the coming of the...
A dry throat stutters on an empty vision of milk and honey
and desolate quiet
A dry mouth falters on the opening blast of,
a song to ruin what it left behind
A bare sole longing for the feel of concrete
and a lone voice crying in the wilderness
I have these dreams when I'm feeling sick of,
unfinished patterns that I can't collate at all,
of an inward breath in a land bereft of uncrippled figures,
of an exhalation, of the Himavant, of a pulse.